


follow the white lines

by RestlessWanderings



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale, Asexual Crowley, Asexual Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, HAROLD THEY'RE LESBIANS, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Wives, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Pining, Swearing, car rides as an excuse to Feel, lots of yearning, mentions of Sappho, no crowley u can't drive away from your emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 17:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20440094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RestlessWanderings/pseuds/RestlessWanderings
Summary: The world keeps turning after the Apocawasn't and everyone returns to their regular habits. All except for Crowley.She can't stay away even if she wanted to.





	follow the white lines

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [all i need, darling, is a life in your shape](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19132273) by [deadgreeks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadgreeks/pseuds/deadgreeks). 

> yes this is based off of mitski's 'strawberry blonde' okay listen it's like THE PERFECT SONG FOR THEM OKAY
> 
> also yes i wrote this in a daze at like 10pm and woke up this morning at like 6am to finish it
> 
> also also, yes, okay, i admit it, i also listened to taylor swift's 'cruel summer' on repeat while writing too
> 
> listen......i just want them to be happy but also wlw
> 
> (edit September 12 - just some grammar errors nothing big)
> 
> Y'ALL THIS WAS MADE INTO A PODFIC by compassrose, please go listen to it it's literally so amazing and gorgeous: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20743874

_i follow the white lines_

_follow the white lines_

_keep my eyes on the road as i ache_

* * *

Crowley waits, all tense lines and hurried glances.

There’s no way that worked. No possible way that they’ve successfully pulled the body switching maneuver off. It could be Heaven and Hell playing the long game again, waiting for them to trip up and drag them back down (and up) to make sure the punishment sticks.

So she waits for the other shoe to fall. Things continue as they always have, the humans blissfully unaware of how close to destruction they’ve come. The animals take a little longer to settle, in tune as they are with the Earth and the energies or some such, but they settle too. Everything settles back into the old, familiar patterns.

Everyone except Crowley. She can’t. She spends as much time as possible with Aziraphale, covering the need to watch her back with lunches and dinners and drinking and everything in between. Aziraphale, bless her, doesn’t question this, but the question is always on the tip of Crowley’s tongue: _Why are you letting me hang around, angel?_

/-/-/-/-/

There’s brief hesitation, after – after they switch bodies, after they dine at the Ritz, after they realize that the Ritz does, in fact, need to close and they’ve very nearly overstayed their welcome. Crowley miracles a generous tip as they exit. They linger outside, Crowley leaning against the Bentley, anxiety tightening her stomach.

She clears her throat. “The bookshop, then? I know you’ve still got some of the good stuff hidden away.”

Aziraphale frowns but nods, tucking a white-blonde ringlet behind her ear. “I suppose so.”

_Oh? _Crowley’s known Aziraphale for over six thousand years, can spot the hesitation as easy as anything. She can’t stop the widening of her eyes. She would have thought Aziraphale would be hurrying her along, wanting to check the shop, wanting to make sure every book is as it was.

Neither of them move. “Or you can come back to mine,” she offers. “If you want,” she hastens to add. “Your choice, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are bright in the relative darkness, her hair nearly glowing from the light of a nearby streetlamp. She’s soft in the yellow light, all dimples and cheeks and curly hair, and Crowley bites back a sigh.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, voice soft. “We’ve got the choice now, don’t we?” Her eyes dart from Crowley to the Bentley and she’s playing with one of the buttons on her jacket, still frowning.

“Hey,” Crowley says, stepping into Aziraphale’s space. She tries not to think – hooks her finger under Aziraphale’s chin and gently tilts her chin up so that the angel meets her gaze. “I’ll drive you, my treat,” she says, and _damn it all _is her voice really that soft? “Anywhere you want to go, angel.”

And, silently: Can I go with you?

And, silently: Am I going too fast?

“How about,” Aziraphale says slowly, testing each word before she says it, the tips of her ears reddening. “How about we go for a drive?”

Crowley steps away, aiming for nonchalant, and almost succeeds. She opens the door for her angel and Aziraphale grins at her, small and soft, and not for the first time Crowley melts. She closes the door and gets behind the wheel, speaking before she’s fully in the car.

“Where to, angel?”

“Anywhere,” Aziraphale breathes.

Crowley grins a little too wide, her cheeks hurting, and peels away from the Ritz into the dark streets. She turns the music down when the first notes of _Somebody to Love _begin to play, expecting Aziraphale to fill the silence, but she doesn’t. Instead she sets her hand down between them, next to Crowley’s, and slowly entwines their pinkie fingers.

Crowley shivers, her hand on the wheel tightening, warmth blooming across her cheeks.

_Just a little longer, _she thinks, inching her hand closer to Aziraphale’s. _Let me keep you to myself a little longer._

/-/-/-/-/

They don’t talk about the Apocawasn’t, not really, but they’re both shaken by the experience. It’s probably too telling that Crowley doesn’t go into the bookshop after their drive that night. She can hardly stand to look at it. At least when she was masquerading as Aziraphale she had a mission to complete and could stuff the memory of the flames away. Now, though, she has time to process it. Has time to dwell. Not helpful, that. 

Within a day, though, she can’t help herself. She _needs _to be near Aziraphale, needs to know she’s safe, needs to be able to watch her back. No amount of residual terror or horror will prevent her from doing so, so the next morning she doesn’t hesitate. Saunters in like she owns the place, calling out to Aziraphale to let her know she’s there, and immediately notices that there are no candles to be found. She looks around for the fireplace but finds it gone as well, replaced with a radiator. Her chest grows tight but loosens too, and the feeling follows her for days on end.

She makes a couple of adjustments for Aziraphale as well, mostly in the form of staying in her sightlines. It’s no hardship on her, especially when it aligns so well with her own wants. She thinks, maybe, that she’d scared the angel when she’d threatened to run away to Alpha Centauri. Definitely not her greatest moment.

Really, though, it was probably what happened the night after the Apocawasn’t, before they’d switched bodies, that’s spooked Aziraphale. Crowley doesn’t think she’d ever felt as exhausted. Even keeping her human shape was a struggle. She could barely stand and had all but collapsed onto the bus seat, leaning heavily against Aziraphale. Throwing off Satan’s will and stopping time isn’t exactly something run of the mill demons such as herself should be _able to do, _per say, so surely she was allowed to feel drained after it all.

She remembers bits and pieces – telling Aziraphale _again _that her shop had burned down (and _fuck _that had been the icing on the fucking cake, it had), inviting her to her flat. She knows they got off, that they got to Crowley’s flat, but she doesn’t remember any of it. Just remembers Aziraphale – her bright, worried eyes, the warmth of her touch, the softness of her voice.

Apparently she’d stopped breathing at one point in the night, her body so utterly drained that it stopped doing all the pesky human things she’d taught it to do in an effort to conserve energy. That probably wasn’t exactly _calming _for the angel, and she vaguely remembers Aziraphale shaking her awake, frantically calling out her name.

Crowley doesn’t mind staying in the angel’s sight-lines, doesn’t mind when Aziraphale rests her hand on her chest when she thinks she’s fully gone in a nap. Not that the naps have been doing her any good lately. The bookshop still smells smoky to her, still sets her teeth on edge, and she can barely relax long enough for a doze these days. It’s the same in her flat, the stench of Ligur’s melted body pervading every nook and cranny. Not exactly conductive to good napping, the smells, so she ends up lightly dozing most of the time, keeping her senses peeled for Heaven and Hell.

Aziraphale picks up on it like she always does. Crowley had probably flinched awake from a deeper-than-normal doze one too many times, or had paced a little too much. Whatever the case, a new routine emerges. They spend their days in the bookshop, usually, or Crowley lures Aziraphale out with the promise of a new restaurant or food stand. They’ll walk through the park and feed the ducks, maybe visit an art museum and snicker at the depictions of angels and demons.

In the evenings, though, where once there would have been hot chocolate and reading in front of a roaring fire, they climb into the Bentley and Crowley drives. She lets Aziraphale pick the direction and goes from there, winding through muddy and gravel and paved roads, through hills and towns and fields. When the sun goes down and the streets begin to clear for the night, Crowley lowers the windows and lets the wind whip through the Bentley and her hair, pushing the pedal down as far as it’ll go.

It always ends too soon. There’ll be a sharp turn she’ll have to slow down for, a town she can’t speed through for some reason, a thin one-laned bridge that she’ll have to stop for. It’s like getting to the scariest part of a movie and finding it’s not scary at all – all buildup and no satisfaction.

“You know, my dear,” Aziraphale says one night after Crowley’s had to slow down for a turn and cursed. “I’m sure there are places you could go where you wouldn’t have to stop.”

Crowley turns to her, heart still tripping up on _my dear, _and freezes when she realizes Aziraphale’s watching her, relaxed and content.

“I thought you hated my driving,” she says.

“I used to, but,” Aziraphale shrugs, “you look so relaxed on our night drives, darling. That’s why you ought to find a nice, empty stretch of road. Provided it’s nowhere near pedestrians or other drivers, of course.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, fixing her eyes on the road and beating down a blush. “Yeah, maybe some time.”

And, silently: Would you come with me? 

Aziraphale’s smile glints, catching the passing streetlights.

/-/-/-/-/

Like so many things they do, they don’t speak about it. Crowley knows that they should, especially now that they’ve faced down Heaven and Hell. It should be easier, now, to confide in Aziraphale, but every time she tries to tell the angel that she _loves her, somebody dammit, _all that comes out is an awkward croak that she segues into an offer for lunch, or dinner, or _anything _that’ll get her away from the sudden piercing look in Aziraphale’s eyes.

One would think that immortality would mean she’d be better at speaking, but it seems to have made her worse. So she doesn’t say anything. Instead she starts slow. Moves a few of her succulents into the bookshop, setting them on a vacant windowsill. When she goes to water them and encourage them to grow better a few days later the window is cleaner. Not enough to harm the books but enough to let a bit more light in for the plants, and Crowley’s so grateful she forgets to whisper angrily at them.

She continues bringing her plants over, one every few days, until one morning she wakes up in her flat and realizes she’s taken all of them to the bookshop. The knowledge makes her stop in her tracks, a cup of coffee halfway to her lips. It’s nearly seven in the morning, she hasn’t had her first cup of coffee, she’s still barefoot for someone’s sake – it’s too early for this kind of revelation. Too early to realize that she’s moved her plants – the closest thing she has to home, the closest thing she has to loyal pets – to the bookshop. To Aziraphale.

Because here’s the thing – she’s always had her plants. Not the same plants, of course. Circumstances being what they were, sometimes she was away for too long and they died. Sometimes she was discorporated and they died. Sometimes she slept for a century and they died. None of the plants she has are from her original garden, let alone Eden, but she’s always had plants. They’ve always been there to yell at, to punish, to vent to.

They’re about as near as home as she thinks she can get. Even the Bentley ranks just a little bit lower, and that’s really only because she’s had her plants longer than she’s had her Bentley. Also her plants haven’t caught on fire recently and nearly discorporated her.

Yes, it wasn’t the Bentley’s fault, and it did a great job, considering. But still.

She heads to the bookshop, first stopping by Aziraphale’s favorite bakery to pick up some croissants, and doesn’t spend another night in her flat again. Instead she sleeps curled up on the couch in the back room of the shop, and if she finds that, over time, it’s getting a little longer, a little wider, a little comfier, she doesn’t say anything.

/-/-/-/-/

Despite it all, though, sleep remains a problem. The nightmares get bad, seeping into the waking hours like a slow going leak. She can’t seem to sleep for more than a couple hours at a time, can’t help the way her fingers drum over any surface available or the bouncing of her knee. Every time she turns a corner she expects flames creeping up the shelves, expects to see Aziraphale _burning_, and on those days there’s nothing she can do but turn into a snake and hide. Preferably in Aziraphale’s pocket, if she’ll let her, so she knows her angel is alright, but even being in the same room will do.

It’s the same scene, again and again: the bookshop on fire, the flames closing in, and Aziraphale is _gone _and Crowley can’t _find her _and, well. She wakes up sometimes, a scream lodged in her throat, sweat soaking into the pillows of the couch, the smell of singed wings thick in her nose. The towering, shadowy shelves offer no comfort and her eyes dart wildly around, searching for –

“My dear, are you quite alright?”

Aziraphale peaks out from behind the Oscar Wilde shelf, brows furrowed, and Crowley sags with relief.

“I’m fine, angel,” she says, a strangled laugh escaping her throat, because she can’t win, can she? Either she stays in this _wretched _shop and never sleeps again but gets to be with Aziraphale, or she leaves, tries to get some decent sleep but doesn’t because she’ll be too worried and –

Aziraphale’s hands are steady and warm on her shoulders. The couch dips as Aziraphale sits, her voice warm and tinged with concern. “Crowley, are you alright? What’s the matter?” Aziraphale stiffens, eyes widening, darting around the room. “Do you sense something? Is –”

Crowley snorts. “Calm down, it’s none of that. Just,” she pauses, registering the absence of her glasses. “Have you seen my glasses?”

Aziraphale nods towards her desk. “It seemed uncomfortable, having them on with your face smashed into a pillow.”

She goes to reach for them but Aziraphale stops her, cradles her face in her hands, and Crowley feels her heart stop beating. She holds still as her angel tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear and brushes her thumbs beneath her eyes.

Her lips thin. “You haven’t been sleeping, have you? You look awful.”

She scoffs halfheartedly. “Thank angel, you always know what to say.” But she feels the deep bags under her eyes, the way she can’t hold onto her sclera, the whisper of a hiss added to her words courtesy of a slightly forked tongue. Even her scales are starting to show in the places where they’ve always been hard to hide: the small of her back, the back of her right shoulder, the backs of her knees.

All at once Crowley realizes she’s trembling. Before Aziraphale can say anything Crowley’s pulled her into a hug, burying her face into her neck and breathing in her scent, all sunshine and daffodils and ozone. Crowley breathes in the divinity, feels Aziraphale’s ribs expand under her touch, and wills herself to believe that everything is fine.

“It was so real,” she says, tightening her arms, unable to let go. She sniffs, feeling her eyes well up.

The sound of her voice seems to spur Aziraphale into action, because she’s returning the hug and running a hand through Crowley’s hair, saying, “It’s alright, you’re fine, you’re safe.”

“’S not me I’m worried about, angel,” she says, tightening her arms. Aziraphale draws in a breath to say something but Crowley beats her to it. “Don’t you _ever _die. You’re not allowed to. Don’t you _dare._”

And, silently: Don’t you dare leave me.

Aziraphale tightens her arms. Crowley feels her ribs creak but she doesn’t complain, the pressure too grounding to dissuade. “Never,” she says, voice hushed but sparking with Divinity, beckoning the universe to bend to her will. “I promise.”

Crowley takes a deep breath, the deepest she’s taken in twelve years, and allows a couple of tears to trail down her face.

“I believe you,” she whispers, curling in tighter, resting her head on the angel’s shoulder.

Aziraphale hums. “You’d better. I don’t make promises lightly,” she says. “Now, do you think you can sleep?”

Crowley nods and doesn’t move. She’ll sleep half upright if she has to – she’s not letting go of Aziraphale.

The angel sighs, something soft and sweet, and repositions them until they’re both lying down on the couch. Aziraphale’s blue eyes glow in the darkness, all cornflowers and skies and icebergs.

“Sleep well,” she whispers, brushing a hand along Crowley’s temple. She feels the miracle settle into her and doesn’t fight it.

/-/-/-/-/

They drive with no real destination in mind. The nights are steadily growing colder, Autumn closing in, and as the days go on something inside Crowley grows more and more restless. Now more than ever she can’t stay still. Her fingers are always moving; her knee is always bouncing. It’s gotten to the point where she’ll be sitting somewhere and find herself rocking back and forth, unable to even _sit _still. Napping, and sleeping, is out of the question.

It’s been a few months since the Apocawasn’t. No word from Heaven or Hell, but Crowley still keeps a lookout, just in case. Hell may not be interested in playing the long game but Heaven certainly can, and she hadn’t exactly been nice to Gabriel when she was Aziraphale.

_I should’ve burned him when I had the chance, _she thinks, pressing the pedal down further, the engine revving.

It’s that point in the night where Aziraphale usually asks to be taken back to the bookshop. She doesn’t though, not tonight, so Crowley keeps driving. Steers the Bentley into the general direction of London, willing to take the long way around. She keeps her eyes on the road, keeps her foot on the pedal, keeps going going _going._

She doesn’t know what it is about car rides, especially night rides, that makes her want to spill every single secret, but the temptation is there. Tonight is no exception, and the words sit right on her tongue, ready to pour out at the slightest provocation.

She feels Aziraphale’s eyes on her and knows her luck is drawing thin.

“What are you thinking about?” Aziraphale asks.

_You, _she wants to say. There are so many things she wants to say. She wants to say: “You’re my everything.” She wants to say: “We don’t talk about the Apocawasn’t but I’ve never been more terrified in my existence.” She wants to say: “Thinking you were dead hurt worse than Falling.” She wants to say: “For as long as I can remember there’s only ever been you.”

She wants to tell her that the poets are right, that Sappho was _right, that clever woman, _because Aziraphale burns her in the best of ways.

She doesn’t say any of this. Instead she says, “Do you ever think it’ll be enough, angel?”

And, silently: Do you think I’ll ever be enough?

Aziraphale’s eyes are bright in the darkness, a lighthouse in the storm, calling her to safety again and again. “I don’t quite follow.”

Crowley waves her hand around, gesturing at everything and nothing. _“This, _angel.”

She feels Aziraphale’s gaze settle on her face and resolutely refuses to meet it. She’s not sure what she means, not really, only that the restlessness brimming under her skin is only halfway caused by the lingering memories of the burning bookshop and celestial retribution.

Aziraphale doesn’t answer for a long time, her eyes never leaving Crowley’s face. Finally, though, she answers: “It used to be, but I’m not so sure anymore.”

Crowley tries not to let those words pierce her through.

She fails.

/-/-/-/-/

The words follow her into her dreams that night. Instead of the bookshop burning she’s Falling, because of course the new trauma doesn’t make the old trauma disappear.

This time it’s not God making her Fall, but Aziraphale. Her eyes are steel and colder than all the Ice Ages combined. She’s in her angelic white suit, wings glittering behind her, her flaming sword in one hand. 

Her voice is monotonous. “You’re not enough, Crowley.”

_I know, _she thinks, not bothering to answer out loud, because she knows how this goes.

Aziraphale’s hand is heavy and icy on her shoulder, pushing her down. She closes her eyes, not bothering to fight it, and wakes up just as she tumbles off the edge of Heaven. 

There’s no dramatics when she dreams of Falling. After six thousand years she guesses her body has gotten used to that particular dream. It answers with nothing more than an elevated heart rate, a fine tremble, a thin sheen of sweat, and scream locked firmly in her chest.

She’s had the dream so many times that the scream doesn’t bother with climbing up her throat anymore.

Morning light slants through the bookshop’s yellowed windows. She sits up, taking a moment to stretch and put herself back together. Aziraphale bustles in with a cup of tea and a cup of coffee, smiling, shining, golden in the morning light.

“Sleep well?” she asks, handing her the coffee mug – the red one with a devil’s tail. 

Crowley grins, unable to help it whenever she sees the mug. “Like a baby.”

Aziraphale begins talking about plans for the afternoon, maybe a trip to the park, and Crowley nods in all the right places.

And, silently: Will I ever be enough?

/-/-/-/-/

Aziraphale points out the spot one day. Well, not exactly, but the angel is hunched over one of the smaller plants, murmuring to it even as it trembles, and Crowley’s curiosity stirs.

“Tell me you’re not softening it up, angel,” she says, coming up behind Aziraphale’s right shoulder.

Aziraphale jumps, scowls, and scoffs. “And if I were?”

Crowley purses her lips. “I’ve asked you a thousand times not to and I’d appreciate it if you listen to me.”

Aziraphale sighs, looking abashed. “It’s just a spot, my dear, it’ll be right as rain in no time at all.”

Crowley nods. “Yes, it will, because I’m going to make an example of it,” she says, moving to pick up the plant.

Aziraphale snatches it away, quick as a snake, and Crowley almost grins at the comparison. “You most certainly will _not._”

“What do you mean I ‘certainly will not?’” she mimics nasally. “It has a spot. It’s got to go. That simple.”

Aziraphale hugs the plant tighter to her chest. “No, I won’t let you.”

Crowley’s lips twitch upward in a snarl, anger curling in her chest. “Fine,” she spits, picking up the nearest book. It’s one of the newer ones, one of Adam’s additions, but Aziraphale loves it nonetheless. “Then I guess I’ll throw this book away instead.” 

The air goes still, and even the plants stop trembling. Aziraphale’s voice is part disbelief, part anger, but all seriousness. “Antonia J. Crowley if you don’t put that book down right now I’ll – I’ll –”

“What, angel?” she asks. “What _ever _will you do?”

Aziraphale splutters, an angry blush staining her cheeks. “Something not good, that’s what!”

Crowley puts a hand to her chest in fake astonishment. “Oh! So you don’t appreciate me threatening to do something with your collection?” she asks, unable to keep the bite from her voice.

It hurts to see her angel deflate. “I see what you’re doing, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “But this plant hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Crowley puts the book down before her claws accidentally pierce it. She clenches her hands into tight fists and crosses them over her chest. “What do you mean it’s done nothing wrong? It’s got a spot.”

“What’s the matter with a little imperfection?” Aziraphale asks, anger giving way to genuine confusion.

Crowley trembles, her breath coming faster. “Everything! It _knows _better than to be imperfect and yet it still decided to have a spot,” she says, her voice rising with every word, her heart beating hard against her chest. “I’ve given them all plenty of warning, I’ve told them _exactly _what I expect, and yet they _still _can’t follow the rules. There’s no deviation allowed in my garden. They’re all to be absolutely bloody brilliantly _perfect.” _She spits out the last word, face screwed up in a snarl.

Aziraphale blinks and something in her expression softens. “Oh, Crowley. A spot isn’t going to make them any less loved.”

The way her face closes off is nearly audible. She almost feels bad when Aziraphale flinches, but she’s not doing this, not now, not ever.

“It’s worthless,” she says, voice hard, “and it knows it, and if you keep saying it’s not worthless what’s it going to do when you get tired of it and leave?” 

She doesn’t bother to wait for a response. Instead she bolts, nearly running for the bookshop’s front door, ignoring Aziraphale calling her name. She leaps into the Bentley and peels out of her parking space as if the forces of Heaven and Hell are out to get her – laughs just this side of hysterically because she _knows _how that feels and somehow this is worse.

She drives until her hands no longer white knuckle the wheel. She drives until her she’s able to unclench her teeth without sobbing. She’s a demon, for fuck’s sake – demons don’t cry. More than that she’s a woman – she’s been yelled and cursed and taunted in every way since the beginning of time. She’s not going to fucking cry because of one fucking plant.

What’s done is done. No use changing it because she wouldn’t even if she had the chance.

And, silently: What’s she going to do when Aziraphale finally tells her to go away?

/-/-/-/-/

She comes back. Of course she does. She always will. Aziraphale could smite her from existence and she’d still somehow figure out a way to come back, if only to linger at the edges, to lurk in the shadows and keep watch.

Aziraphale doesn’t mention it when she comes sauntering back in the next morning with a bag of scones and croissants. Instead she nods, smiles, and goes back to her reading. Crowley doesn’t take offense – morning is the best time for reading, after all, because there’s no customers to worry about. She’s about to go into the kitchen to get a plate when she spots the offending plant. It’s in the sun, freshly watered, a black and red knitted pot cozy keeping it snug. She glances at Aziraphale.

The angel purses her lips, daring her to say something, and Crowley huffs.

Hours later, when Aziraphale disappears in the stacks, Crowley will stand up from the couch and run her fingers over the neat stitching, marveling at the softness.

“You don’t deserve this,” she whispers. “Don’t fuck it up.”

/-/-/-/-/

Autumn well and truly sets in. Crowley adds a few extra layers to her everyday wear, going so far as to include a hat and earmuffs, but it’s no use. She can never get warm once Summer ends, and it’ll be mid-Spring before it gets anywhere near warm enough for her liking. 

“So damn cold,” she grouses, sitting on the floor in front of one of the space heaters littering the bookshop. Despite the radiator, the heaters, and the miracle Crowley _knows _Aziraphale is doing to keep the bookshop at the highest temperature the books can stand, she still can’t get warm. “Why even live here? Could live anywhere, you know.”

And, silently: If you left, could I come with you?

Aziraphale hums. “We were stationed here a century or two ago, dear, that’s why we live here.”

Crowley’s brain takes a second to reboot as it always does when Aziraphale whips out the endearments. “Ffsh – ngk – yeah, but we’re not anymore.”

Aziraphale looks at her from over the top of the Emily Dickinson poetry book, eyes squinting behind her reading glasses. “Not what?”

“Stationed,” Crowley says. They haven’t talked about this. Haven’t talked about anything, really. After six thousand years of being _whatever _they are, one would think they’d actually have talked to each other. But it’s always subtext. Always leaving so much room for misinterpretation.

“No,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t suppose we are.” She closes the book, a frown marring her face, and Crowley presses her hands into her armpits to stop herself from reaching out and smoothing Aziraphale’s brows.

The words tumble out of her mouth before she can stop them. “Do you regret the side you chose?”

And, silently: Do you regret choosing me?

Aziraphale straightens, jutting out her chin. “Absolutely not,” she says, voice steady and strong as if she’s about to go into battle. Her gaze pierces Crowley, searching, and Crowley looks away.

“Good,” she says, far softer than she meant to. She clears her throat. “That’s uh – that’s good, angel. Good.”

Aziraphale nods, relaxing back into the seat. “Yes, I rather think so.” Then she straightens. “And you?” she asks, words tumbling together in her haste. “Regret, I mean?”

Crowley barks out a laugh, short and sharp, unable to help herself. “No,” she says, surprise making her voice go higher than she’d like. She swallows. “Never, angel,” she says, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes, needing her to know that she means it. “I could never regret you.”

How could she? How could she regret Aziraphale? She’d do everything the same, Fall all over again, just to make sure they’d meet on Eden’s wall. _I see the ducks and I think of you, _she wants to say. _I smell bread and wonder how fresh it is and if you’d like it. I spot a turtle in the pond at St. James and look up everything I can about turtles so I can talk with you about it later. I see daffodils and think of you, and the next time I’m at a nursery I end up buying daffodils because how could I leave them behind when they remind me of you? I look at the clouds and wonder what shapes you’d see in them if you’d ever get your nose out of one of your books. I look for estate sales sometimes and slip in, buy some books, and create an excuse to give them to you. _

She wants to say: “You consume me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

And, silently: Is that okay?

And, silently: Do you feel the same?

She doesn’t say any of this. Fear crawls up her spine and she doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. Too much. She’s going too fast again, isn’t she?

“Lets go for a drive,” she says, already standing and dislodging the blankets from her shoulders. Her hair crackles with static electricity and she ignores it, snapping her fingers to miracle the Bentley’s keys into her waiting hands.

Aziraphale blinks. “I – a drive?”

“Come on angel, enough talk. Let’s ride for a bit.” It’s nearly that time of night, anyway.

Because she can’t. She doesn’t know how. How is she supposed to talk plainly when she’s only ever spoken in subtext, only ever communicated in the things not said? Is such a thing even able to be unlearned? She doesn’t know, isn’t sure she wants to know, because there’s a lump in her throat that holds all of the words she can’t get past her lips, words that’ll break _whatever _it is that she and Aziraphale have and, well.

She’d rather bottle it up and never deal with it than break this thing.

Aziraphale shrugs, putting down the Dickinson book. “Alright dear, let’s go for a drive.” 

Once out of the city they stick to the back roads, the heat in the Bentley turned up as far as it’ll go. Crowley has the windows down despite the cold, needing to feel the air wash over her and tangle her hair. _Under Pressure _plays from the radio on a loop and Crowley lets it play, lets the beat of the music settle into her pulse. She presses the pedal to the floor, hoping that if she matches the speed of the Bentley with the speed of her thoughts she’ll be able to escape the tightness in her chest.

It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

She glances over to Aziraphale and a choked noise escapes her, luckily lost in the wind. Aziraphale’s smiling, cheeks red with cold, her eyes closed in pleasure as she mouths along to _Under Pressure. _Her hair’s come undone from her braided bun and flying about her face like a living halo.

Crowley can’t stop herself from drinking in the sight. She _wants _like she’s never wanted before. It would be so easy to reach over and grasp Aziraphale’s hand, but it’s a gulf she’s tried to reach over too many times. She’s been brushed away too many times. She can’t, not again, because if Aziraphale rejects her one more time she doesn’t know what she’ll do with herself.

She forces herself to look away, both hands white knuckling the steering wheel. Wills the Bentley to go faster, keeping her eyes on the asphalt and the white lines. Aches.

/-/-/-/-/

Crowley may not sleep at her flat anymore, but she’s still got some stuff there. Her books are the next things to be moved into the bookshop. She doesn’t have many – nowhere near as many as Aziraphale, of course – but she has a decent shelf. Mostly astronomy books from every age, but also _Wuthering Heights _and _Dracula _and _Frankenstein. _Aziraphale had given her those, and she’d tried to read them, she had, but snake eyes aren’t exactly good at focusing on tiny, unmoving things.

She’d used a small, discreet miracle to get the wheels turning for audiobooks, which is probably why they’d taken so long to catch on. Maybe now she’ll actually be able to read all the titles Aziraphale keeps recommending her.

She also wants to read the James Bond books. The older movies were good, so the books had to be good too, right?

And _Jurassic Park. _She’s been wanting to read that one for ages, if only to laugh at it.

She’s also got a goodbye card from Warlock – a flimsy thing covered in crayon but done with so much love that even _she _can almost sense it. A letter from Amelia Earhart promising her a flight is included as well, along with a few other similar items. She’s put them in a couple of small rectangular boxes and warded them from decay so that they never get damaged from her comings and goings.

She pops on over to her flat to retrieve them. Aziraphale will know about the new additions probably the moment she walks through the door with them, but Crowley’s hoping she won’t. She wants to put the newer astronomy ones, the ones she got only for the big pictures, on the shelves right next to the entrance. Eye-level so that, with a bit of luck, it’ll encourage people to come into the shop.

She smiles. It’s always fun to watch Aziraphale thwart a potential customer.

Crowley barely gets two steps into the shop before Aziraphale is on her, saying that she’s cleared off a shelf in the back room.

Crowley stumbles through her response. “Angel, you didn’t – what – I – _what?”_

Aziraphale tells her again, a bit slower this time, her eyes twinkling.

“Yes, yes, I heard you,” Crowley says, spluttering. “But I had a plan! Was gonna put them up near the front, you see, so –”

Aziraphale shakes her head, voice fond. “Don’t think I don’t know your plan. You wanted to try and get more customers in here. Well,” she says, wiggling proudly, and _damn _if that doesn’t make something warm and fond spill into Crowley’s chest, “consider your wiles thwarted.”

Crowley grins. Shrugs. “I’ll consider it.” 

They shelve the books together, and Crowley’s about to suggest they get something to eat when Aziraphale says her name, voice slow and cautious.

Immediately she cases the room, her teeth on edge, her fangs and claws itching to reveal themselves. “You sense something, angel?”

“Oh no, no dear girl, I just,” Aziraphale trails off, and Crowley gives the room one last glance before focusing on her angel.

Aziraphale’s fingers trail down the page, touch reverent, and for a single second Crowley is wildly jealous of the bundle of pages. She wants Aziraphale’s fingers to run down her spine like that. Wants those fingers playing in her hair and caressing her cheek. The resulting blush is something she can’t fight, and she thanks her stars that Aziraphale’s too preoccupied with the bundle of pages to notice it.

“Is this who I think it is?” Aziraphale asks, already moving towards a table in the middle of the room and setting the stack down carefully.

Crowley should’ve expected her to know immediately, really. She’s only been collecting literature from the dawn of time, or thereabouts. “Well, that depends. Who do you think it is?”

Aziraphale looks up to squint at her, suspicion coloring every inch of her face. “Antonia J. Crowley is this if your idea of a prank I will –”

“No no,” she says, throwing her hands up. “Not a prank. Those are real. Got them straight from the author herself, I did.” She saunters over to the table, peering at the tidy handwriting. “I’d quite forgotten I had them.” 

She hadn’t.

It’s Aziraphale who splutters this time. “How did you – how would you – Crowley!” She throws her hands in the air. “You have a complete edition of Sappho’s poems from _the author herself _and you never bothered to _tell me?” _

Crowley shrugs. “I didn’t think you’d like them.”

And, silently: They reminded me of you.

Aziraphale scoffs. “You didn’t think I’d _like _them?”

“You never seemed one for poetry.”

And, silently: I couldn’t part with them.

“I was best friends with Oscar Wilde _and _Lord Byron! What part of that says I wouldn’t appreciate poetry?”

Crowley crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, you can read them now. Better late than never.”

Something must show in her face, though, because Aziraphale pauses, suddenly uncertain. “If you really don’t want me to have a look at them I won’t, of course.”

Crowley sighs. Again, that feeling bubbling up in her chest, something that makes her fingers tremble and her heart beat hard against her ribs. Part fear, part hope, all vulnerability and restlessness.

“Nah, you can read it,” she says, turning her back on Aziraphale and crouching. She picks up one of the astronomy books, something from the 1800s, all soft and worn with age. Instead of stars, though, she thinks of hot summer days and soft fabric, of blue skies and bluer seas, of hours spent in deep conversation with a woman who dreamed so vividly.

And, silently: You burn me.

/-/-/-/-/

They’re walking through the park. It’s cold out, bracingly so, and even with five layers Crowley’s still shivering, but she couldn’t stand another minute in the bookshop. She still can’t sleep well, still can’t get the stench of burning books out of her nose or the taste of it out of her mouth. She’d needed some fresh air after spending three days cooped up, not wanting to go out for the cold.

“All I’m saying,” she says, so caught up in a rant she can’t remember how it started or what the point of it is anymore, “is that turtles should be larger. All of them. They should all be the size of bears. Think about it, angel, turtles the size of bears.”

“Oh yes, very intimidating,” Aziraphale says with a grin, slipping her hand into Crowley’s and entwining their fingers.

It’s only her forward momentum that keeps her walking. It’s not enough to keep her from slipping on an errant patch of ice, though, and the sensation of falling – even a small one like this – never fails to send panic shooting up her spine. She closes her eyes and waits for the ground to meet her.

It doesn’t.

She opens her eyes and meets Aziraphale’s gaze, utterly unable to stop the blush blooming on her cheeks. Aziraphale, cheeky shit that she is, grins and _winks _of all things.

“Don’t go falling on my account,” she says, steadying Crowley.

Crowley sputters. “You – I’m – That was planned, it was all part of my plan.”

Aziraphale smirks. “Of course dear,” she says, squeezing Crowley’s hand.

Crowley scowls but walks closer to Aziraphale, their shoulders brushing, and Aziraphale’s grin is blinding.

/-/-/-/-/

The next time she has a nightmare it’s worse, somehow, because everything is burning – the books, the shelves, Aziraphale – but Aziraphale is screaming too, the kind of scream Crowley ever really hears in Hell, the kind of scream that’s guttural and instinctive and final. Not a call for help, not a plea for mercy – just agony and the unwillingness to keep it inside.

When she wakes she leaps off of the couch, heart in her throat, and sprints up the staircase. There’s a small office up there, one where Aziraphale keeps the manuscripts she prizes above all others, and Crowley heads for it. Sees the light filtering through the crack in the door and hesitates. She shouldn’t disturb her angel, not for something as trivial as –

But the door swings open and Aziraphale almost barrels into her. “Crowley!” she says, grabbing her arms, worried eyes scanning her face. “Are you alright? What’s the matter? It felt like you were – that you were –”

Aziraphale’s hands run over her body, light but insistent, searching for wounds, and Crowley shakes her head.

“I’m fine,” she says, voice hoarse from the scream she refuses to let out. “Just a nightmare.”

Aziraphale’s brows pinch. “Do you need to go for a drive?”

She nods, body thrumming, desperate for flight now that she knows Aziraphale is okay. “Want to join?”

And, silently: Please come with me, please stay with me, _damn everything else, _angel, and come with me.

Aziraphale nods. “Lead on.”

/-/-/-/-/

The touches have always been there. Before the Apocawasn’t they were few and far in between. Fleeting things only offered because of drunken forgetfulness or desperate necessity. Crowley remembers them all, of course, with a clarity that rivals her memory of her Fall. She remembers the first time Aziraphale patted her on the back in a dusty little village somewhere in what’s now the Middle East, the way the sun made her glow and her eyes sparkle. She remembers when she got into a bit of a bind during the witch hunting craze and was nearly drowned, saved only by a miracle and Aziraphale’s hand breaking through the water to haul her out.

She’d returned the gestures, of course, but after a while had stopped, had kept a couple of inches between them, because seeing Aziraphale flinch at her touch hurt worse than a knife through the ribs.

Crowley can’t help herself sometimes, though. A brush of shoulders here, a brush of knees under the table there. Something that can easily be played off as accident. It’s not like she blames the angel either. Heaven wasn’t exactly a cuddly place when she was up there, and from what she saw from Aziraphale’s trial it’s only gotten worse. She’s just not used to it, is all. But there’s always the thought in the back of Crowley’s mind that Aziraphale is repulsed by her. She’s a demon, Aziraphale’s an angel. Comes with the whole ‘hereditary enemies’ thing, she supposes.

But that was before the Apocawasn’t. That was before the bookshop burned, before her Bentley burned, before she thought Aziraphale had burned.

Her hands itch to tangle in the angel’s hair. She wants to fall asleep wrapped around the angel, her ear over her heart. She wants to be able to reach for Aziraphale’s hand whenever she wants and know it’ll be returned, wants to entwine their fingers and never let go.

It comes to a head one night when they’ve been drinking. Crowley’s splayed across the couch (which is now the size of a bed, really), ranting about jellyfish.

“I jusssst – they’re jusssst – bagsss with brainsss!” she says, flinging her arms wide to try to distract Aziraphale from hearing the hiss in her voice. “Whasss the point in that?”

“’M not entirely sure they have brains, dear,” Aziraphale says, slouched in her chair, hugging a half-empty glass of wine to her chest.

“Then how they livin’?” Crowley asks, pushing herself up on her elbows and staring over the coffee table. “How we livin’?”

Aziraphale snorts. “We have brains, darling.”

Crowley squints and leans forward. “No, I mean. _How _we livin’? Like this?”

And, silently: I want to kiss you. 

It’s getting ridiculous, really, how much time she spends looking at Aziraphale. She spends hours watching the angel putter around, watching her make tea and organize books. Watching her from nearly closed eyes when she puts her hand on Crowley’s chest to make sure she’s still breathing, sometimes even holding her wrist to take her pulse.

Aziraphale stands, the wine in her glass nearly sloshing over the rim. There’s a look in her eyes like she’s just connected some dots that maybe weren’t meant to be connected but also maybe were. She sets the glass down on the table and leans forward, determination etched in the lovely lines of her face. Crowley freezes, mouth half open, a strangled, questioning noise escaping her lips.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, sounding remarkably not drunk, and hey, when did that happen? Had she sobered up? Crowley started drinking a few hours earlier to cope with the still-lingering stench of burnt books but Aziraphale had caught up, right? Right?

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, and Crowley blinks slowly in response.

“I was wondering,” Aziraphale continues, “if I could take off your glasses.”

Crowley snorts, an ugly thing that scrapes that back of her throat. “Tha’s not a niccce joke, angel.” 

Aziraphale shakes her head. “I’m not joking, dear. You never have to wear those glasses around me. I thought you knew that, but I’m thinking maybe you don’t.” She pauses. “I’m thinking there’s a lot of things I thought you knew but you don’t.” 

Crowley’s brain stalls. Blue screens. Waits to dismiss the error report. Reboots after a minute and Aziraphale is still there in front of her, waiting for her reply, all patience and determination and lovely blue eyes.

“They’re a bit much,” she says (squeaks, really). “Didn’t want to bother you with them.”

Aziraphale shakes her head. “I’ve always thought them quite beautiful, really.” She gestures to the glasses. “May I?” 

“Anything you want,” Crowley breathes, her brain rebooting again. She thinks, maybe, that she should be sober for this, but she also thinks she’s not nearly drunk enough.

Aziraphale’s hands gently lift the glasses from her face and set them carefully on the coffee table between them. Then those hands cup her face and Crowley’s too drunk to try and stop the blush, to try and whip up some sclera, to try and grab her glasses back because surely, _surely, _every ounce of softness and nervousness she’s feeling is being broadcasted right now.

“I think we should talk,” Aziraphale says, standing and coming around the coffee table.

“Wha?” Crowley asks, tilting her head back to look at Aziraphale.

Steady blue eyes meet hers but she can see the tips of Aziraphale’s ears turning red and the way her fingers wring together. She’s nervous, and that makes Crowley nervous, and she’s sober before she knows what she’s doing, shivering at the taste.

“Alright angel, what do you want to talk about?” she asks, sitting up fully and patting the spot next to her. 

Aziraphale sits close enough that Crowley can feel her heat and it takes everything in her not to close that gap, not to reach across and press her lips to those lips, run her fingers through those ringlets, cup that jaw in the palm of her hand. 

“We’re on our side now,” Aziraphale says and _oh, okay, we’re talking about this then _Crowley thinks.

“We’ve always been on our own side. Since the Arrangement began at least,” Crowley says, though what she really wants to say is that she’s been on Aziraphale’s side since she saw her on the Eastern Gate, her curls long enough to get caught between her lips. There’s something so unangelic about spitting out an errant curl, and Crowley’d thanked her lucky stars she was a snake then, otherwise she would’ve laughed.

Aziraphale wrings her hands together. “Well, I – I guess you always did go fast.”

Crowley feels herself shut down, feels the way her face blanks and her body stiffens. She moves away, reaching for her glasses, needing the weight of them on her face.

“If that’s everything, angel, I’ll be going,” she says, already heading for the door.

“Crowley, wait!” Aziraphale says, catching her wrist. “What did I say? What –”

And maybe it’s the lingering taste of wine on her tongue, or the way she hasn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in months, or the way she can still smell burning books and burning wood and _burning wings and – _

“I can’t, Aziraphale, I _can’t_,” she says, her shoulders curling inward. She yanks her wrist from Aziraphale’s grip but the angel, for all of her softness, was a warrior once. “Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

Something in her snaps and she turns on Aziraphale, all teeth and spitting tongue. “You want to know what’s wrong? What’s wrong is that I’m always going _too fast _and maybe I can’t take it anymore. Maybe I can’t keep going your speed because I’ve gone your speed for _six thousand years _and I’m _tired, _Aziraphale. I am _tired _of being the one to reach and reach and reach and always get turned down.”

And, silently: Haven’t I been brave enough? 

She tries to stop herself but the words keep leaping off her tongue. “I can’t stand this bloody bookshop anymore, can’t stand my flat, can’t stand to be outside where it’s so bloody cold. I thought you _died_, Aziraphale. Not discorporated, but dead. Gone. Annihilated. Wiped from all planes of existence.” She flings an arm out, gesturing. “The worst event of my entire existence happened right here and you really think I can just, what? Sleep? That I can just forget about it? That I can walk around and not see flashes of your burning body around every fucking corner?”

And, silently: I’ll stay here, I will, but please don’t make me.

She sucks in a tremulous breath, tears running down her face. “You were _dead_,” she says, half accusation and half wail, because she never really did deal with it all, did she? Just lobbed it into a box and shoved it away.

Crowley turns away, shivering, lightly tugging against Aziraphale’s iron grasp, but makes no real move to leave. The silence is heavy, suffocating, pierced only by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale whispers, and Crowley flinches.

“Don’t,” she hisses. “Not unless you mean it, because I can’t –” She can’t be turned away again, can’t be rejected again, can’t be thrown to the side and expected to pick herself back up again. She doesn’t know if her heart can take it, not after everything.

“Darling,” Aziraphale says, stronger this time, and Crowley feels a gentle hand on her cheek, feels Aziraphale step closer. “Look at me.”

Crowley’s helpless. She looks, takes in the blotchy face and the trembling lips and the tear-filled eyes and thinks _unfair, really, how beautiful you are. _

“I’m sorry it took so long,” she says, holding Crowley’s hands now, entwining their fingers. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to catch up. I’m sorry I turned you away again and again. I’m sorry I was so scared. But we’re on our own side now.”

Crowley holds her breath, waiting, torn between hope and resignation.

“I love you, Crowley.”

She sways, knees going weak. “Say it again?”

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, smiling.

And –

And –

And, out loud: “I love you, too.”

/-/-/-/-/

She still lets Aziraphale take the lead. Their first kiss is all Aziraphale. Every kiss after is initiated by Aziraphale. Every touch, every cuddle session, every time they hold hands.

Now that she has permission to touch, she can’t. Crowley thinks that maybe this is why she’d had to tempt Eve in the first place, all those millennia ago. If she’d had blanket permission, would she have been brave enough to take a bite? Because here she is with Aziraphale and her soft hands and her glowing blue eyes and her honeysuckle voice giving her every permission and she still can’t reach across the gulf.

Aziraphale seems to understand though. Tells her one morning, as they lay curled together on the couch, their cuddling session gone through the night: “It was cruel of me, to keep you waiting so long when I knew you loved me. So if you need me to be the brave one, I will. You waited six thousand years, darling. I can wait too.” And she smiles, wry and soft and a little bitter and Crowley makes an aborted move to kiss it from her face but, well.

Aziraphale meets her in the middle.

“I won’t ever leave you,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll reach for you, again and again and again.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything – can’t, with the lump in her throat – so she pushes her face into Aziraphale’s shoulder and hopes her angel can sense her love through her grip. Miracle of miracles, Crowley _believes _her.

She nods into Aziraphale’s shoulder and cuddles her closer.

/-/-/-/-/

Winter fades and Spring scurries in, all rainy and dreary, but slowly and surely the air is getting warmer. Slowly Crowley is able to shed some of her outer layers and the sun is able to actually warm her up rather than make her feel like water left out to get tepid.

On the first truly warm, sunny day, they go on a picnic. Aziraphale gives her a direction and she drives until they find a nice secluded spot, setting up under a tree. Aziraphale is talking animatedly about a scroll, or a manuscript – something with the books, but Crowley lost the thread of the conversation awhile ago, too caught up with watching Aziraphale’s hands, watching her smile, watching the sun play with her hair.

There’s nothing but the birds and the clouds and the wind and them, and something in Crowley – a bit that’s been wound tight since the Apocawasn’t, finally relaxes. She feels herself melt onto the blanket beneath them, lays her head in Aziraphale’s lap and closes her eyes when Aziraphale begins to run her fingers through her hair.

She wants this. Wants Aziraphale all to herself, wants the quiet countryside where she doesn’t have to worry about every person being an angel or a demon bent on revenge. It’s been almost a year but there’s still no way Heaven or Hell has let that go, no way it can be this easy, no way they can just disappear into a quiet life.

Crowley blinks and takes off her glasses. Aziraphale pauses, looking down at her, part delight and part quizzical. Crowley takes a deep breath. Offers Aziraphale her hand. 

And, out loud: “Run away with me, angel?”

And, silently: Please. Angel, love, darling, dearest, _please. _

There’s a beat. Barely there, but it’s just long enough for Crowley’s heart to curl in on itself. She goes to retract her hand but Aziraphale holds it, her thumb rubbing circles into Crowley’s skin.

“Where to, darling?” she asks, beaming, and Crowley laughs a little, half shock and half delight, because _she said yes, can you believe it? She said yes!_

“I was thinking South Downs? Little cottage? Room for your books and maybe a garden?” she says, all of her sentences ending like questions as anxiety curls in her gut. Too fast? Too much? 

Aziraphale nods. Kisses her forehead. Brushes an errant copper lock behind her ear. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, my love.”

Crowley laughs again, for real this time, all delight and happiness. Her grin is wide enough it hurts her cheeks but she can’t suppress it. She lifts herself up, wraps her arms around Aziraphale’s neck, and hugs her tight. Aziraphale hugs her back just as tightly, laughing just as brightly, and if the plants around them end up blooming far earlier than normal, well, there’s no one there to call them out on it.

/-/-/-/-/

Their first night in the South Downs Crowley goes and stands at the cliffs, facing the ocean. It’s a relatively clear night, the stars glittering brightly, the new moon allowing them to shine their fullest. There’s a storm on the horizon – dark, billowing clouds promising one hell of rainfall – and heralding its arrival are gale-force winds that rip through her hair.

She closes her eyes and leans into the wind, her toes dangling off the cliff edge and her face upturned to the night sky. With a _fwoosh _she brings her wings out to the earthly plane and lets the wind run through them.

The restlessness inside of her settles with each tug of the wind. She throws her arms out wide as if to hug the wind and it answers her call, catching her wings just enough so that she’s airborne, her feet a few inches off the ground. 

Because here’s the thing no one told her until she figured it out herself: she can’t fly. Even with her wings looking like they’ve only been dyed and not burned, even with her wings the healthiest they’ve ever been. She can’t fly. She’s a demon, and flight is God’s gift, part of Her Eternal Love package, and when she Fell she was stripped of that gift.

But here, for a few glorious moments, she’s flying, the wind rippling across her feathers and playing with her hair. Something inside of her uncurls, a taunt thing that’s been there since before Eden, and she yells – a jubilant _wahoo! _that the wind carries away from her.

The gale recedes and she drops to the ground, cold and shivering but feeling as if she could face down God Herself and win.

Aziraphale’s hand slipping into hers doesn’t surprise her, and when she looks over she’s met with a beaming smile and a thermos of cocoa.

“I love you, darling,” Aziraphale says, stepping closer, her warmth seeping into Crowley.

Crowley grins.

And, out loud: “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> quick how wholly can i project my lesbian yearning and aching onto a fictional relationship and still have everyone be in character

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] follow the white lines by RestlessWanderings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20743874) by [CompassRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompassRose/pseuds/CompassRose)


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